


some moments last forever (but some flare out with love love love)

by Voidfish



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Pining, Romantic Fluff, its soft and gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23518426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voidfish/pseuds/Voidfish
Summary: The door is thrown open and there, in front of him once again, is Fiddleford McGucket.He’d seen him before, of course, but that was during the apocalypse and had been quick and frantic. Now he takes the man in.Now he notices how thin Fiddleford is, the hunch of his back, he notices the way the man’s hands seem to tremor. Dilapidated, Ford thinks again.For a moment Ford wonders how the man could be the same one he had spent countless hours theorizing with, but when recognition lights up the smaller man’s face Ford can suddenly see the resemblance.---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Two moments taken out of Stanford Pines and Fiddleford McGucket's lives.
Relationships: Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket/Ford Pines
Comments: 6
Kudos: 93





	some moments last forever (but some flare out with love love love)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Love Love Love by The Mountain Goats. This fic came from just playing that song on repeat and seeing where it went.
> 
> Originally was going to be a piece looking at Tate McGucket but it got gay instead.

_ “You ever think about what comes next?” Fiddleford asks. His elbows dig into the cool, damp grass and he knows when he stands there will be grass staining his pants but he can’t find it in him to care when the stars above him are so radiant. He looks next to him at Ford, raising moonshine to his mouth. _

_ Ford, comfortably dressed in a button up and sweater vest with jeans, looks up at the night sky as he thinks. “Like, after death?” _

_ Fiddleford snorts. He pulls his jacket, an old navy green thing he got handed down from a cousin, closer to him. “Like after college.” _

_ “Oh.” Ford thinks, and Fiddleford watches as the gears turn in the man’s head. It’s a beautiful process to watch, Fiddleford can’t help but think, from the way the man scrunches his nose up in concentration to the way his hands absently tap at the grass. It’s Ford at his most candid, without the walls and layers of protection. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot, actually.” Ford admits. _

_ “Yeah?” Fiddleford asks. “What about it?” _

_ Ford shrugs. “Everything, really. Obviously when I’m done with the PHD I could go for another doctorate.” Fiddleford snorts at that, but besides waving a hand in the man’s direction Ford ignores him. “But what to do with the degree still frustrates me.” Ford stares at his hands, placed gently in his lap now, and Fiddleford fights the urge to do something stupid, like grabbing the man’s hand gently in his own. He’s not drunk enough to do that, not quite yet. “I’ve been thinking about looking into anomalies,” Ford admits. _

_ “That sounds great,” Fiddleford says.  _

_ Ford laughs, but it’s a bitter sound. “I think you’ll be the only one to agree with that.” _

_ Fiddleford shakes his head. “You’d be surprised by how many people are amazed by passion. If you care about it, do it. If it’s meant to be, it’ll be.” _

_ “Sounds like you believe in fate.” _

_ Fiddleford can’t look up at Ford anymore, so he turns his gaze to the sky. “I reckon I do. I take it you don’t?” _

_ Ford snorts, and a faint smile tugs at Fiddleford’s lips. “I believe in science,” Ford says. _

_ “You were just talking ‘bout studying anomalies,” Fiddleford says. _

_ “So you think I should study fate?” Ford asks. _

_ Fiddleford shakes his head. “Not necessarily. But you can’t think that there are fairies in the woods and then say it’s crazy that we were supposed to bump into each other.” _

_ Ford thinks about that, and Fiddleford looks over again to watch him process this information.  _

_ “I think,” Ford finally admits, “that I’ll give you that one. It wouldn’t make sense to discount that there’s a larger factor at play resulting in our paths colliding.” _

_ Fiddleford snorts. “That’s a confounded way to say you think we were fated to meet.” As the man thinks about what he had just said Fiddleford’s face flushes.  _

_ Ford turns to him, face lightly dusted pink, and looks at him with bright, intelligent eyes. “Fine. Fiddleford, I think fate brought us together. Is that better?” _

_ Fiddleford ignores every urge running through him right now - the urge to take a hand and brush one of Ford’s unruly curls off his forehead, the urge to take the man’s hand in his own, the urge to brush his lips against Ford’s. Instead, he smiles. _

_ “I reckon so.” _

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The building is dilapidated, Ford notes to himself as he approaches the junkyard. He had been warned multiple times about what state he may find Fiddleford in, but nothing could have steeled him for seeing it for himself. 

As he approaches, Ford hears something echoing from inside the building. The noise stops as he raps on the door, replaced instead by hurried scrambling.

The door is thrown open and there, in front of him once again, is Fiddleford McGucket.

He’d seen him before, of course, but that was during the apocalypse and had been quick and frantic. Now he takes the man in.

Now he notices how thin Fiddleford is, the hunch of his back, he notices the way the man’s hands seem to tremor.  _ Dilapidated _ , Ford thinks again. For a moment Ford wonders how the man could be the same one he had spent countless hours theorizing with, but when recognition lights up the smaller man’s face Ford can suddenly see the resemblance.

“Stanford!” Fiddleford says. “Didn’t think I’d see you ‘round these parts. Goin’ dumpster divin’?”

Ford chuckles at what he thinks was a joke. “I’ve come to see you, actually. If that’s alright with you.”

“Is it ever!” Fiddleford exclaims. He takes a bony hand and grabs Ford’s hands, tugging him gently towards the decaying hut that must be his home. Ford can’t help the gasp that escapes him at the casual touch, but either Fiddleford doesn’t hear the sound or isn’t bothered by it as he continues his monologue. “I was hopin’ to see you, but didn’t know if you were up to it. You’re probably pretty busy. Say, aren't cha going sailing with your brother?”

It doesn’t take long to cross from the junkyard to Fiddleford’s current living space, but in that small span Ford can tell that Fiddleford has been living here for a while. There are scraps of old projects, circuits and wires laid out and abandoned. The sight makes Ford nostalgic for burnt black coffee and long nights working on research papers. 

“Stanford?” Fiddleford asks as they reach the doorway. 

“Hm? Oh, yes,” Ford says, realizing that the engineer was expecting an answer, “yes, we’re technically going out to study anomalies as well as the geographical positioning of such abnormalities.” Ford pauses, thinking. “It’d been a dream, really, for the two of us to go sailing together, seeking adventure. It’s the least I can give him.”

Fiddleford arches a brow at that. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He fiddles for a moment with an old rusty lock before the door swings open.

Inside is a mess. If the dumpster is filled with pet projects of Fiddleford’s then the actual house is flooded with them, bits and pieces of electronics and half-filled projects thrown around. There are papers, too, blueprints everywhere, making the place a mess to navigate. Fiddleford does it with ease, however, looking back at the last jump at Ford, expectantly. Ford tries to hide his smile as he repeats the path his friend had taken.

“Don’t get me wrong, I want to go sailing with Stanley,” Ford says as he attempts to cross the threshold. “It seems an impossibility, really, that it’s coming true.”

“But.” Fiddleford prods.

“But,” Ford admits, “I can’t help but feel responsible for a large part of his suffering. Of everyone’s suffering, really.” Ford sighs, reaching an open clearing. Fiddleford motions to an old chair, reclining himself in a rocking chair. Ford obliges. “If there’s anything I can do that I think will make it up, especially to Stanley, I’ll do it. He deserves more than this, but right now this is the only thing I can think of.”

Fiddleford lets out a low whistle. “Now that,” he says, “that’s a lot for one person to deal with, Stanford.”

Ford smiles sadly. “If you try to compare me to Atlas I’m leaving immediately,” he jokes.

Stanford Pines has seen galaxies that no other human has, seen palaces made for kings and jewels worth more than anything you could imagine, and somehow still, he thinks to himself, Fiddleford McGucket’s laugh is one of the most wonderful things in the multiverse.

“Nah,” Fiddleford says, wiping a lone tear off his face, “you’re more Icarus than Atlas, anyhow.”

“You compared me to Icarus,” Ford says.

“Was that at university?” Fiddleford asks.

Ford shakes his head. “It was… well. When things were getting bad, before you left. You asked if I’d heard of what happened to Icarus. It was an apt comparison.”

Fiddleford leans forward, reaching out, and takes one of Ford’s hands. It’s ridiculous, Ford can’t help but think, how the small motion makes his heart leap. “You gotta be careful, Stanford, that you don’t let all of this eat you up, okay? Just ‘cause you made some mistakes don’t mean you don’t deserve happiness.”

“And what about you?” Ford says.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_ Ford smiles back. “What’s your plan, anyway? For life after college?” _

_ Fiddleford drums against his thigh, searching for the right words. “Well, I’m thinking of opening my own company.” _

_ “Really? That’s amazing,” Ford supplies, and Fiddleford smiles. _

_ “Yeah, I figured I’d make personal computers.” Fiddleford takes a breath and steels himself for what comes next. “And I want a family.” _

_ “Oh,” Ford says. _

_ “Yeah,” Fiddleford replies. _

_ “That’s, uh, that’s great,” Ford awkwardly supplies. “I never really pinned you as a family man.” _

_ Fiddleford tries to hide his annoyance. “And why not?” _

_ “You’re so bright,” Ford says, not meeting his gaze. “You could change the world. I guess I just never considered that you would want a distraction like that.” _

_ Fiddleford shakes his head. “Family ain’t a distraction, Stanford. It’s a motivator.” He takes a long sip from his moonshine, savoring the burn, before continuing. “‘Sides, not all of us can change the world. Rest of us just gotta live in it.” _

_ Ford laughs at that, and Fiddleford feels a joy travel through him at the noise that he desperately tries to contribute to the liquor. “I suppose you’re right, as always.” There’s a comfortable silence between them as their gazes travel from each other back to the sky.  _

_ “What about you?” Fiddleford finally asks. “I take it family ain’t exactly in your plan right now.” _

_ Ford shakes his head. “I’m too busy for that kind of thing.” There’s a pause, and Fiddleford, thinking the conversation over, turns his attention back to the sky. “If I’m honest,” Ford finally says, voice low and soft, “I think I might be too freakish for family.”  _

_ “Nonsense,” Fiddleford says. “Everybody deserves family, Stanford. You especially.” _

_ \---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- _

“What about me?” Fiddleford asks.

“Fiddleford,” Ford asks. “Why are you still living in the dump?” Fiddleford’s face flushes, and the man’s hands begin messing with his beard, gently taking the hair and passing it back and forth between his fingers. Ford doubts he realizes that he’s doing it. “You deserve better than this.”

Fiddleford’s voice is soft. “That’s very kind, Stanford,” he starts, eyes aimed downwards, “but I don’t know if lotsa people would agree with you on that.”

“What do you mean?”

Fiddleford shakes his head. “When I… when you were gone. I caused quite a ruckus. Emma May won’t talk to me anymore.” Fiddleford takes in a shaky breath. “I messed things up with Tate. An’ I don’t think there’s anything I can do to fix it.” 

The silence that hangs between them isn’t necessarily uncomfortable. “May I speak my mind?” Ford finally says.

Fiddleford laughs. “I find that you usually do.”

“Frankly, I think that’s bullshit.” Ford says.

Fiddleford puts a hand over his mouth in an attempt to stifle his surprised laughter, but the sound still escaped. Ford bites down on his own smile. “What do you mean?” Fiddleford asks.

“Fiddleford, do you think,” Ford says, “that I still deserve happiness, after what I’ve done? Still deserve a family?”

“You know I do,” Fiddleford says. “And I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but it ain’t the same.”

Ford leans in, setting his elbows on his knees. “And why not? What makes you unforgivable, if you understand now what you did was wrong and others now realize -”

“Realize I was out of my mind?” Fiddleford finishes. The man finally takes his hands away from his beard and instead rests them on his face. “I’m sorry for interrupting.”

“You’re fine,” Ford assures him. “...How are you doing, Fiddleford? Really?”

Fiddleford laughs, a breathy noise. “I’m not really sure what’s next, if I’m being honest. I spent thirty years not thinking straight but also not thinking about tomorrow. And it feels like tomorrow’s here already.”

Ford exhales. “I know it isn’t the same,” he says, “but I can relate.”

“Really?”

Ford nods. “After spending thirty years always looking over my shoulder? I’d never expected it to be over. I still have to convince myself that it is over, sometimes. But do you know what helps?”

“What helps?” Fiddleford asks.

Ford smiles. “Friends. Family.”

“And what if I’ve messed it up?” Fiddleford asks after a second. “If I don’t deserve it anymore?”

“Everybody deserves family, Fiddleford. You especially.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_ “The problem with people,” Ford announces as the two of them navigate their way back from the quad to their little brownstone upperclassmen apartment, “is that they worm their way under your skin so quickly that by the time you notice it’s too late.” _

_ Ford, Fiddleford realizes at this moment, is drunk.  _

_ “Is that so?” Fiddleford replies, trying to hide his growing amusement. _

_ “If I could cut people out of the equation,” Ford continues, oblivious as usual, “I would. It would be so simple to have life without human interaction. Then you don’t have to worry about upsetting anyone.” _

_ “Stanford,” Fiddleford says as they both take a right into their neighborhood, “are you saying you’d replace me with a robot?” _

_ “No, because you’ve already wormed your way in.” Ford explains. “You can stay, but everyone else I meet has got to be robots.” _

_ Fiddleford snorts, trying to ignore the way his face tints pink at the man’s explanation. Damn moonshine. “What’s wrong with human interaction?”  _

_ “It’s so random,” Ford says as they reach the door. Fiddleford pulls the key out and unlocks the door. “With humans you never know what’s the next move. Take you, for example,” Ford says as they walk into the house. “You could have let me in the house, like you did. Or you could have pushed me down the stairs! With humans, unlike machines, there’s all these extra variables.” _

_ Or, Fiddleford thinks, I could have kissed you. And the urge is so strong that for a moment Fiddlford imagines it. He imagines the four words, “Can I kiss you”, imagines Ford’s surprised nod, imagines leaning over, placing his lips on top of Ford’s, of hands nestling in the curly brown hair, of glasses clinking together. _

_ “Can I…” Fiddleford stops himself. “Can I get you a glass of water?” _

_ "See," Ford says, "there's another variable I never would have guessed." _

_ \---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- _

“Do you have to leave?” Fiddleford asks.

“I probably should,” Ford says. “It’s getting late. But we should do this again.” Ford smiles. “I had a very good time.”

“Yeah!” Fiddleford says, eyes bright. “Yeah, I did too.”

Ford puts his hand out for a shake. “I’m glad you’re doing better,” he says.

Fiddleford shakes his head. “Stanford,” he says, “I’d think we’d be past handshakes.” Ford laughs and accepts the man’s hug with open arms.

Fiddleford McGucket is warm in his arms, his head gently tucking into Ford’s shoulder. 

“I’ve missed you,” Ford allows himself to say.

“I missed you too,” Fiddleford admits. “Even when I didn’t know what that feeling was, I missed you.”

The two, finally, reluctantly, separate.

“Don’t be a stranger, okay?” Fiddleford says. “Visit soon.”

Ford smiles. “I will.” A thought, a feeling, causes him to pause in the doorway. 

“Stanford?” Fiddleford asks, seeping into his voice as Ford thinks.

Ford thinks about hands stalling inches from his, of nights watching the skyline together and gentle blushes dusting both faces, of long nights spent inches away from each other of -

Of family.

“Before I leave,” Ford says, anxiety pooling in his stomach, “I was wondering if I could, er, if I could kiss you. If that was something you would be interested in, that is.”

Fiddleford’s face is an enigma right now and Ford tries to swallow the fear filling him. “Stanford,” Fiddleford says.

“It’s ridiculous to ask,” Ford rambles, “I know. And I was just leaving, and I feel like that might have been impolite to invite myself to stay longer than decided just so I can kiss you.”

“Stanord,” Fiddleford says, crossing to him.

Ford places his hands behind his back, a nervous habit from long ago he never learned to kick. “And I don’t even know if you’re gay. Or if you’re okay with me being gay. Or if you knew I was gay.”

“Ford,” Fiddleford repeats, inches away from the man. “Just breathe,” he says. And then Fiddleford reaches up, standing on the tops of his toes, and fulfills his college dream of kissing Stanford Pines. Fiddleford smiles as they pull apart. “Been wanting to do that since junior year,” he says and Ford laughs.

“This is an unknown territory,” Ford says. “I don’t - I mean, I’ve never…”

Fiddleford nods. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything like this. Not sure I know exactly how it works anymore.”

Ford laughs. “Well if you’re confused too that makes me feel better.”

“We can figure it out together,” Fiddleford says.

Ford smiles, nodding. “Together.”

And like it’s nothing, like it’s as easy as breathing, Ford leans down and kisses Fiddleford.

And for one moment, Ford doesn’t worry about what might be out there or after him, and Fiddleford doesn’t wonder what’s next or what to do with himself. For a moment the only thing that matters is shortening the distance between the two.

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure if I like the ending. Let me know what you think! Also, you can find me on tumblr at @dissociateddisaster


End file.
